


The Hunter's Moon

by lindenmae



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bondage, M/M, PWP, Porn Without Plot, Power Bottom Stiles, but both parties are fully consenting, erotic asphyxiation, leash/collar kink, one moment that could possibly be construed as dubcon, very very minor bloodplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 18:58:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1060381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindenmae/pseuds/lindenmae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twin points of bright blue flash at him from the dark and he smiles, sharper than the claws so close to his throat.</p>
<p>His skin pebbles against the room’s chill, thin shirt protecting nothing.  His breath comes shallow, he can feel his nipples drag against the rough cloth with every inhale.  The shadow barely touches him, tilts his head back with just the hint of a press against the flush of his bottom lip.  He elongates his throat, angles his head to where he knows the moonlight is strongest, so the line of his neck is obviously visible against the light.  His fingers still have a hold on the shadow’s wrist and he doesn’t let go, lets his arm move in tandem as the shadow caresses the curve of his adam’s apple.  His mouth falls open as his head falls back and he does nothing to mask the gasp that escapes when the shadow’s claw catches on the collar of his shirt.  </p>
<p>“C’mon, Derek,” he urges when the shadow hesitates...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hunter's Moon

**Author's Note:**

> This is just porn. That's all it is.

He makes it inside with just seconds to spare, chest heaving, feet bare and cold. There is sweat dripping in rivulets down his spine, pooling in the hollow of his throat. He bolts his door and checks the windows and fingers the old wooden bat he keeps with the coats. The hunter’s moon is high and painted red with the blood of the dying sun. The woods are quiet except for the rustling of leaves in the autumn breeze. The yard outside is littered with fallen foliage, the grass turned into a dancing sea of oranges and yellows and browns. 

He doesn’t need to strain his ears to hear it when those leaves crunch under the feet of something outside, following the scent trail he left behind. The doors are locked and the windows are shut tight, all except for one. Outside, somewhere in the night, something calls – a low and hollow howl that echoes off the trees and between his ears. It’s met with a responding cry and then another from somewhere farther off and he shudders beneath his too thin cotton shirt. In this town there are monsters and they don’t care who knows they’re there. 

He can hear the wind picking up the leaves outside his door, tossing them about before slamming them down against the ground as if they're something that could die twice. They’re crisp beneath black paws, steady crunching steps letting him know he is not alone, that walls won’t save him. He can feel the final, answering howl in his own chest, as loud as the beat of his heart, rumbling up and out to slice through the night. It’s not his howl though, not his voice. The wolf is at his door and would like to be let in. 

He runs for his room, takes the stairs two at a time, shirt billowing like wings out behind him as he flies. The air up here is colder, sharper, soil and frost scenting the air. His curtains blow inward, snapping and stilling and snapping again as the outside breeze bids them dance. Here is the forgotten window, left unlocked but not open. He knows it wasn’t open, but the wind can’t blow through glass. He tightens his fingers around the handle of his bat, prepares to swing.

Claws curl out from the shadows beyond his door, black like the night they come from. They wrap around the wooden shaft of the bat and yank it from his grasp. It lands halfway across the room and clatters to the floor, muffled by the thick carpeting. The shadow chuckles, traces a claw along his jawline, sharp enough to cut. His pulse jumps beneath his skin. It would be so easy for the shadow to press just a bit harder there, open him up, let his blood run like wine.

“Stiles,” the shadow whispers.

He swallows hard and takes a deliberate step across the threshold of his own bedroom, closer to the shadow, deeper into the dark. He curls his own fingers around the shadow’s wrist, tugs it up until that single sharp point is pressed against his lips, pushing them open. He darts his tongue out and the shadow growls, low and heavy and he feels it beneath his own ribcage. 

Twin points of bright blue flash at him from the dark and he smiles, sharper than the claws so close to his throat.

His skin pebbles against the room’s chill, thin shirt protecting nothing. His breath comes shallow, he can feel his nipples drag against the rough cloth with every inhale. The shadow barely touches him, tilts his head back with just the hint of a press against the flush of his bottom lip. He elongates his throat, angles his head to where he knows the moonlight is strongest, so the line of his neck is obviously visible against the light. His fingers still have a hold on the shadow’s wrist and he doesn’t let go, lets his arm move in tandem as the shadow caresses the curve of his adam’s apple. His mouth falls open as his head falls back and he does nothing to mask the gasp that escapes when the shadow’s claw catches on the collar of his shirt. 

“C’mon, Derek,” he urges when the shadow hesitates and he gets a nick against his skin for his effort. The claw carves in just a bit, just beneath his collar bone and he grits his teeth against a hiss of pain. It’s not even as bad as a shaving cut, just a reprimand, and it only makes him cockier.

He tilts his hips, searching for friction, and reaches out blindly with his other hand, searching the darkness for the hint of a shape, for soft black hair he can twist his fingers into, strong shoulders he can rake his blunt human nails across, a lean torso he knows will be naked to the air. The shadow rumbles and he hears his shirt rip before he feels it, the collar tugging at the back of his neck as Derek drags five clawed fingers down his chest, the cloth of his shirt coming away from his skin as easily as a spider web. His nipples are hard and his belly is tight and he keeps his throat bared even as his seeking fingers make contact with a stubbled jaw.

Lips come to kiss his skin, the hint of fangs just barely hidden. They seek out first the cut on his chest, suck at it to make it bleed again before a broad tongue swipes away the sting. He forgets his grasp on Derek’s wrist to brace his hands against a thick neck. He pushes back when Derek’s fingers fit against his hips and he’s lifted into the air, his body solidly thumping against a wall. His legs go around Derek’s waist automatically, holding himself aloft even as the breath leaves his lungs in the rush of one word. 

“ _Yes_.”

Derek’s tongue finds a nipple, the cut of a tooth catching against it and Stiles moans, can’t help it. Derek bites with the blunt teeth at the front of his mouth and tugs and Stiles bucks his hips and tightens his thighs, leveraging himself up so Derek is forced to let go with a wet pop. Derek smiles up at him, sharp teeth blinding white against the soot black of his beard, and slides his hands up Stiles’ waist. His fingers slot in between the bones of Stiles' ribcage like perfect hand holds, and Derek lifts him away from the wall. The room spins around them, a blur of light and shadow, before Stiles is deposited roughly onto his bed, the sheets already mussed and slept in. Derek’s nostrils flare when Stiles lands and he grins, knowing how his scent must be wafting up and invading Derek’s senses. He flicks open his own fly and palms his crotch, bucking his hips when Derek’s eyes flash again. 

Stiles sees it when Derek’s muscles flex, knows when Derek is about to move, and just this once he’s quicker. He rolls away when Derek pounces, flips mid roll to get a leg over Derek’s back. Stiles leans in, drags his naked chest across Derek’s broad back and traces the whorls of Derek’s tattoo with his tongue. It only lasts a second, he doesn’t weigh nearly enough to keep Derek down just by straddling him, but he wasn’t trying to really. He’s ready for it when Derek tries to buck him off and he doesn’t go anywhere, just lets Derek flip onto his back and the view is so much better this way anyway. 

Stiles grinds his ass against Derek’s crotch, a slow drag of loose denim against bare skin and Derek growls and bares his teeth with a snap. Derek could gut him in an instant if he wanted to and that knowledge will always leave Stiles’ heart fluttering against his ribcage, but he isn’t scared, not even a little. He digs his knees into the soft skin above Derek’s hipbones and grinds his ass down again as he traces an X over Derek’s heart with his fingertip. Derek’s hands find his hips, the sharp points of his claws slipping down beneath his waist band, inching the denim down. There’s no way to divest himself of his pants gracefully now and when he tries to pull away Derek tightens his grip. Stiles leans forward, presses his body all along Derek’s, moans into Derek’s neck when he feels coarse hair tickling the head of his dick. He wriggles and lets Derek pull and claw at his pants until he gets one foot free and he doesn’t know what state his jeans have been left in. It’s easy enough to kick them off his other leg and roll his hips into Derek’s, drag his cock up Derek’s torso. He can feel every ripple of muscle, every dip and swell like a washboard when his dick rubs against them.

He nips at Derek’s earlobe when he feels a tickle between his cheeks, slips his hand behind a pillow while Derek is distracted and comes up with a length of rope. It’s nothing special, not laced with anything. It wouldn’t stop Derek if he really wanted to get free, but Stiles reaches back to catch one of Derek’s hands anyway, laces their fingers together and draws his arm up until he can guide Derek to curl his fingers around one of the bedposts. All the while Stiles keeps kissing along Derek’s neck and jaw and finally his mouth. He loops the rope once around Derek’s neck and twice around his arm before Derek snarls and wrenches his head away, five points digging sharply into the small of Stiles' back but not breaking skin, not yet. 

Stiles ignores it, sits up and finishes looping the rope around his bedpost and into a knot one handed. He grips the other end tight like a leash and tugs when Derek goes to surge forward. It works like a choke collar and Derek slams back down against the pillows, eyes flashing hotly. Stiles keeps eye contact like a challenge, shifts his hips just enough to make Derek bare his teeth and plant his feet. Stiles’ palms are sweating, heart jack hammering in his chest and he lets the rope slip through his grip the second time Derek tries to sit up, enough that Derek is able to snap his jaws just a breath away from Stiles’ throat. Stiles stays steady and doesn’t flinch, not even when he feels Derek’s claws slide up his back and knows the skin there will be raised and red in the light of day. Derek flings his arm out and lets the back of his hand rest as close to other bedpost as he can reach, claws still extended, fingers flexing, and drops his head back against the pillows with a dramatic sigh. 

The knots keeping Derek’s arms bound are not the tightest Stiles can tie, but if Derek tries to rip free the rope will tighten around his neck. He rests his head against the pillows and keeps his jaw tipped up in a last stance of defiance. His eyes follow Stiles when he moves, body undulating to drag the swell of his ass against Derek’s cock.

“Do you know what you smelled when you threw me down on this bed, Derek?” Stiles asks softly, voice loud to his own ears in the silence of the night. “Do you know what I did in here? Not even two hours ago?” 

The heat in Derek’s eyes tells Stiles that he knows full well, but that doesn’t mean Stiles can’t still show him.

He rises up on his knees, throws his shoulder back and slides two fingers into himself easily, already wet with lube and thoroughly stretched. Derek’s eyes are burning a steady blue now, raking up and down Stiles’ body, lingering only on the line of his cock as it strains up toward his belly button and bounces with every thrust of his fingers inside himself. Derek doesn’t say a word, but his lips fall open and Stiles can almost see his breath as he exhales harshly when Stiles slips his fingers free and immediately wraps them around the head of Derek’s cock. 

It’s still a stretch to take it in, Stiles’ fingers no match for Derek’s girth, but he’s open and loose and the stretch burns in all the right ways. Stiles braces himself on his free arm, fingers splayed out in a star across Derek’s belly. He can feel Derek’s abs jump beneath his palm as Derek tries to keep still, tries to keep from fighting against the rope. Everything in him wants to break free and turn the tables, flip them over and take and take; Stiles can see it in the clench of his jaw, the veins standing out in his arms as he curls his fingers into fists. Stiles can see little droplets of blood on his white sheets beneath each of Derek’s hands.

“Good boy, Derek,” Stiles says darkly once he’s fully seated. He tugs at Derek’s balls once just to see him grit his teeth, before wrapping his fingers around his own cock. There’s pre-come glistening in the dark thatch of hair at Derek’s crotch and trailing up his belly and more pearling at Stiles’ tip. He gives himself a few slow pulls before he starts to works his hips, tensing his thighs and pushing almost all the way up before dropping back down and taking Derek flush again. 

Derek strains at his bonds until they start to chafe where rope meets skin, but he doesn’t break them. He clenches his jaw and grits his teeth like that will stop his moans from escaping, but it doesn’t - they come out guttural and harsh and Stiles feels them in his own chest, echoes every cry of Derek’s with one of his own. He fucks himself on Derek until his thighs are burning and his cock is aching and red in his grip. His breath comes in gasps and pants and clouds white in the chill of the room, but he can’t feel it -his skin wet with sweat and Derek burning like a furnace beneath him. 

The moonlight stays on them like a spotlight, bathing the bed in varying shades of tarnished gold. Their skin slaps wetly together on an irregular beat, Derek thrusting his hips up to meet Stiles when he falls back down. It’s too much and will never be enough, not like this so Stiles falls forward, twines his fingers in the rope around Derek’s neck like a collar at the same time as he frees one of Derek’s arms. It barely takes a second before Derek’s entire body surges up and he rips his second arm free with a strangled shout. He cradles the back of Stiles’ head and flips them without pulling out, smothering Stiles’ body into the bedding with his own. Stiles wraps his legs around Derek’s hips as he starts to thrust and one of Derek’s hands finds the back of his thigh, pushing one leg up until Stiles’ knee is resting against his armpit. 

Stiles keeps his grip tight on the rope until he can see the skin going purple around Derek’s neck, but Derek doesn’t stop, doesn’t even falter. He kisses Stiles for the first time that night, opens his mouth up and steals Stiles’ breath for himself. He comes like that, one hand scrabbling at the sweat-slick skin of Derek’s back and his cock trapped between them, the only friction he’s getting from the drag of Derek’s belly against him. Derek angles his hips and hits Stiles’ prostate with a punishing rhythm until his vision whites out and he bites down on Derek’s lip until he tastes blood. Derek follows soon after, his orgasm milked from him by Stiles’ clenching on his aftershocks. 

Stiles lets his grip on the rope go and feels the chafed skin of Derek’s neck heal beneath his fingertips as Derek noses at his pulse point, settling heavily on top of him and still inside him and refusing to let go.

“I caught you,” Stiles whispers proudly, fingers stroking every inch of Derek’s body he can reach.

They never did say who was the hunter and who was the prey after all.


End file.
